


Fucking

by Frayach



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Fucking, M/M, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-27
Updated: 2013-09-27
Packaged: 2017-12-27 19:20:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frayach/pseuds/Frayach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><img/><br/>Brian teaches Justin the art of fucking.  This story takes place right before the "King of Babylon" episode.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fucking

**Author's Note:**

> Brian claims to have taught Justin everything Justin knows. Alas, we are left to merely imagine the details. This is a story in the [Everything He Knows](http://archiveofourown.org/works/880530) collection of stand-alone stories. The gorgeous banner was made by Urugwaj.

FUCKING

“Think of it as like riding a horse,” Brian says.

I giggle. I know I shouldn’t because he’s Being. All. Serious. but I can’t help it. There is no way Brian's ever ridden a horse. I have, but only because I went to Camp Leavemethefuckaloneiamnotafag every summer.

“A horse? You’ve ridden a horse? When?”

He just looks at me. “If you don’t want to do this, I can think of at least a million and one things I’d rather be doing,” he says.

And he means it. He does not want to be doing this, and if he hadn’t lost at Scrabble, we wouldn’t be.

I smother another giggle. “No, I really want to do this,” I assure him. I arrange my face into an expression of solemn attention. 

He glares at me and starts thrusting against the pillow again. “Okay, so the first thing you need to do is . . . Hey! Are you even listening?”

“Yes,” I say and then blush because I’m a shitty liar. He’s right; I wasn’t listening. I’m too mesmerized by the sight of muscles flexing in his ass. I’ve always been underneath him at this stage in the proceedings, so I’ve never seen the delicious dimpling of his cheeks. (His ass cheeks, I mean. His face cheeks don’t dimple, and if they did, he’d probably undergo cosmetic surgery to get rid of the offending cuteness).

“Justin,” he sighs as though the weight of the world is bearing down on his shoulders. “Are you going to pay attention or not? I’m not relishing humping my pillow here like a fucking teenager.”

Bullshit. I suppress another giggle. I’ve caught a glimpse or two of his dick; it’s rock-hard, and the head, taut with blood, is shiny and purple. He can pretend he’s not getting off on this all he wants, but his body is giving him away. Big time.

“Okay, so where was I?”

“Horses and dimples.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Please continue Professor Kinney.”

He goes back to thrusting languorously against that lucky fucking pillow.

“Remember,” he says didactically. “There’s no point in fucking unless you can do it well. If you suck at it, word’s going to get out, and once it’s out, it’s hard to put it back in.”

“Huh?” I shake my head. The only words I heard from those two sentences were “fucking,” “suck,” “hard” and “in-&-out.”

He ignores me and continues. “If you can’t fuck, then go for a blowjob. Never let anyone think you’re a novice, and even if you are, don’t act like one.”

“God, you’re making it sound like the backroom is a hosting country for the Olympics!”

“Well, yeah. That’s because it is. People’s reps are made and broken at Babylon – and I don’t mean on the dance floor.”

I stare at him, unsure whether to laugh or not, but when he breaks into one of his wide, impish smiles, I burst into giggles again.

He throws a pillow at me. “Here. Instead of watching, how about doing? Start humpin’, Sunshine.”

I position the pillow beneath my hips and prop myself up on my hands. We’re side-by-side, and I glance over at him. It’s like were doing naked push-ups at the gym.

“Okay, fuck the horse,” he says. We both crack up again, and we’re not even stoned.

“Right,” he says, getting serious again. “Forget the horseback riding analogy. Let’s talk about style. Everyone who’s a champion fuck has an identifiable personal style. Think of it this way: a bottom should be able to think about tops as condiments. Top X fucks like ketchup; Top Y fucks like mustard, etcetera, etcetera. All he needs to do is decide which one he wants that night.”

“What condiment are you?” I ask. He pauses a moment to consider the question.

“Hmmm, let’s see. I’d say sweet&sour, except for the sweet part, or hot sauce, except it’s too predictable. Maybe a nice mango chutney . . .”

“Wasabi,” I say. “Definitely wasabi.”

“Why? Because I get up your nose and bring tears to your eyes?”

I laugh. “Something like that.”

“Okay, then wasabi it is. Now the question is what condiment do _you_ want to be? Is it going to be boring old Miracle Whip or a thick cream sauce made with freshly chopped tarragon and a hint – just a hint – of garlic?”

“Not bad for a man incapable of making anything that requires actual heat and can only find the kitchen if I've made coffee and you can smell it from the bedroom.”

“Shush, young grasshopper, or I shall have to rap your knuckles with something hard - like my dick, for instance. Okay. Step One: decide whether to prepare your bottom or not and, if so, whether you’re going to finger or rim.”

I scrunch up my nose. He’s the only one I’ve done either to, and I loved it, but I’m not sure I want to do it to someone else. After all, we’re talking assholes here.

He laughs. “You look like something smells bad.”

“Because it might,” I reply.

He nods with a serious expression. “True,” he says. “The possibility cannot be discounted. Here’s my advice: just tap the guy’s hole and then sniff your fingertip . . .”

I am out of bed and in the kitchen before I even realize I’ve moved at all. Jesus Christ! UGH!!! I actually have to swallow back a retch. I look back at the bed. He’s rolling around and laughing so hard that he’s given himself a case hiccups.

“Ugh, Brian!” I shout at him from a safe distance. “That’s disgusting! You almost made me puke up my breakfast!”

“Ew,” he gasps. “That’d be gross. You had a Spanish omelet.”

“ _That_ would be gross?” I squeak. “Try some dude’s unwashed butthole! Forget it. I’ve decided I don’t want to learn how to fuck . . .” I pause. Dare I say it? Why not? “. . . that is except if it’s you . . .”

He stops laughing although he’s still got hiccups, which make his ensuing “not fucking likely” sound like Alvin the Chipmunk. It’s so adorable that I return to the bedroom.

“Alright *hic-cup* alright. You don’t *hic-cup* have to do it that *hic-cup* way, although it _is_ the most expedient. There are *hic-cup* other means of *hic-cup* ascertaining the *hic-cup* cleanliness of a guy’s *hic-cup* ass. Or, of course, you could *hic-cup* carry Wet-Whips along with your *hic-cup* condoms.”

More laughter and hic-cupping ensue, but I don’t see why. Moist toilettes actually sound like a really good idea.

It takes a good five minutes or so till Brian gets rid of his hic-cups, but he’s still chuckling. I’ve never seen him so amused by something, which, of course, makes me grin too, no matter how unappetizing the subject matter.

“Listen,” he says. “Most guys who go to Babylon or the baths looking to get fucked wash their assholes before they go. The really considerate bottoms even douche. Bet you didn't know Summer’s Eve isn’t just for women.”

“You’re right,” I say. “I didn’t know, and I wish I _still_ didn’t.”

“Ah, Sunshine,” he says indulgently. “So young, so naïve. Enemas are a top’s best friend. I just don’t like them when they smell ‘fresh, like a summer’s breeze.’” He pauses, looking thoughtful. “I think I might’ve just come up with a new advertising campaign: ‘Butt-Clean™. It smells like a man’s anus should.’”

I’m ready to give up and go watch T.V. but Brian hasn’t lost his impressive hard-on. The man’s amazing.

“Does _anything_ ever make you soft except an orgasm?” I ask. 

He thinks for a moment. “Pussy,” he says. “You have never seen anything more horrifying in your life. They’re like moist, hairy, meat-eating flowers.”

I feel my breakfast rise again.

“By comparison, they make even smelly assholes seem like delicacies.”

I must look like I’m ready to cry, vomit, bolt or all of the above because he takes pity on me. “Relax, Sunshine. You’re fucking style can include no preparation. Just tell the guy first, so he can renege if he wants, but most experienced bottoms don’t mind – in fact, most of them like penetration to hurt a little bit. Like you.” He winks at me with a sly smile.

“What do you usually do?” I ask, genuine curiosity mixing with my queasiness. 

“Depends,” he replies. “If I can smell soap, I’ll finger a guy. I love assholes. But I don’t rim unless I’m out-of-my-mind horny.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “You rimmed me,” I say, and he just shrugs.

“Like I said: I only rim when my balls feel like they’re going to burst.” I know he knows what his admission means to me. “Which is why I had to jerk off right after I rimmed you that first time. I didn’t want to fuck your brains out right off the bat, but my balls were fucking blue. You were _so_ fucking hot.”

My dick starts to swell as he pulls me down for a long, deep kiss.

“Alright,” he says huskily. “Back to your lesson. Step two: put on your condom.” He retrieves two from the bowl on his nightstand.

“Now?” I say. “But we’re not really fucking . . .”

“Doesn’t matter. Just the mere thought of fucking should make you reach for your pocket. It’s got to be instinct. You have to be able to do it without needing to consciously think about what you’re doing. It’s got to be a reflex. And if you’re out of condoms, ask your bottom. A bottom who’s douched his ass will also be carrying condoms, and if he isn’t, tell him to blow you instead. A guy not carrying a condom is probably positive – or fucking stupid . . .”

I blush. “I wasn’t carrying any that night.”

“Because you weren’t planning on fucking,” he says. “Have you ever not carried one since?”

I shake my head, and he smiles. “Good boy,” he says, ruffling my hair.

We both put on our condoms. It’s exciting despite the fact I’ll only be fucking a pillow; this is the first time I’ve ever worn one. 

“Always use lubed condoms,” he says, tugging on the tip of his to create enough room. His loads are fucking tidal. “Unlubed ones can tear. They’re only good for straight people and whatever nasty things they do. Plus it’s more comfortable for your partner.”

“What about ribbed or nubbed ones?” I ask, and he rolls his eyes.

“Marketing gimmick, although a fucking good one. Plus, shit like that will interfere with your sensation. Only guys who suck at fucking need assistance from their rubbers. Got yours on? Okay, fold your pillow in half. That’s it. Now take hold of your dick and position it. Nothing’s lamer than jabbing around at a guy’s ass, trying to find his hole like you're playing 'Pin the Tail on the Donkey.' You want to be lined up right so that your cock just pops right in.”

He grips his cock and guides it into the space created by the folding of the pillow; I follow suit.

“Okay,” he says. “Here’s a another place for personal style. You can either enter slowly or you can slam right in. You know, of course, that for me it’s usually the latter.”

I watch as he thrusts his hips forward sharply, and that’s the moment I know that, even though I'll be fucking a pillow, I’m going to come. It’s also the moment I feel my desire override my jealousy. I want to watch Brian fuck someone up-close. I want to see the guy’s face when Brian stretches him wide with his rock-hard cock and starts thrusting brutally like he is now. He grunts. He must be able to feel the heat of my gaze.

“Go on,” he says breathlessly. “Don’t just mimic me. Do what comes naturally.”

I close my eyes and concentrate. My dick is throbbing, but I’m feeling a bit self-conscious; after all, I’m fucking a pillow . . .

“Go on,” he says again, his face close enough to mine that I feel his breath on my cheek. “Think about some hot guy you saw at Babylon last night. Just make sure you make it last until he comes. Never come first. Tops who come first are pathetic -- unless, of course, you can come twice. Make the fuck more about him than you – until he shoots, of course, and then go for your orgasm like your very survival depends on it. If it's a really good fuck, it might actually be true.”

But I don’t want to think about some random guy from Babylon. I didn’t see anyone last night that I wanted to fuck . . . that is, anyone other than Brian. I frown.

“Then pretend it’s me,” he says, his voice low. “Pretend you’re about to fuck me; pretend I’m on my knees, waiting for you to fill my ass. Pretend I’m begging you for it; that I’m swearing I’ll die if you don’t hurry up and fuck me. I’m open and ready. Come on, Sunshine. Fuck me.”

I whimper helplessly because his words have done the trick. The image he’s painted is vivid behind my closed eyelids – as vivid as any porno flick I’ve ever watched. Brian’s on his knees with his face on the mattress. His legs are spread, and his balls are hanging, plump and full between them. I feel mine pull up and tighten in response. My arousal long ago passed endurable. I seize my dick and carefully, slowly ease into his body, not stopping until I’m as deep as I can go. I pause, letting the sensation of being inside him fill me to the brim and then, as it starts pouring over, I begin thrusting. I feel the tightness of his channel start to loosen to accept my full length and width. Every spasm inside of him pushes me as I stumble forward until I find a rhythm. My rhythm. It’s not at all like his – his full-body collisions wrenching unbearably sweet sensations from the core of your body – it’s gentler, deeper, pulling only a fraction of the way out and then pumping back in again. I imagine him jerking his cock with one hand while the other clutches the sheet so tightly that his knuckles are white. He grunts with my every push, moving his own body to create even deeper penetration. I watch him working for release, desperate, tortured, shaking all over. He’s not a passive recipient of my pleasure, but a partner as we work together for his climax . . .”

“. . . I’m about to come, Sunshine,” he whispers. “Find that one last angle that’s going to push me over my edge. You might not be able to reach it, but try for the prostate. If I cant my hips just right . . .”

Behind my closed eyes, I see his body seize up, still and rigid. His orgasm is so intense that he doesn’t even make a sound until it’s over, and when he does, it’s a heartfelt groan of gratitude. I grab his hips and yank his pliant body back, and (to my surprise), slap him on the side of his ass hard and then a second time even harder. When his body jerks with sensation, I slam into him and freeze until every last spurt has filled my condom. Utterly spent, I collapse on top of him and send us both sprawling onto the mattress wet with his semen and sweat.

 _Fuck_. Holy fucking fuck.

I slowly open my heavy eyelids and come back to reality. He’s on his knees, staring down at me, his cheeks and throat flushed. He’s removed his condom, and he’s jerking off. When he looks at my face and sees that my eyes are open, he closes his, throws his head back, and comes all over my ass. I feel the hot splatters go on and on.

“Fuck, that was hot,” he groans when he’s found his bearings again. “Jesus, you should’ve seen yourself. That pillow’s not going to be able to walk for a week.”

I burst out laughing. He grabs me and rolls me over.

“So,” he says, moving to straddle my hips. “Who’d you think about?”

I make a duh! face. “Who do you think, smartass?”

He smirks. He knows full well who I was thinking of, and he’s obviously as pleased as punch about it.

“So?” I say. “How’d I do?”

He makes that pondering expression again. “Not bad,” he says at last. “And quite unusual and original. You’re all about depth and rhythm. Confident but not showy. Mature beyond your tender years. Obviously going for duration and not just for fireworks. Controlled, poised, dignified. Good aim. Likely to hit most guys’ prostates. If you can perform the same way with an actual guy, I’d give you an A+

My jaw drops. No fucking way. Brian Kinney just gave me an A fucking plus on my first try at something?

He grins at me. “Congratulations, Mr. Taylor. Only thing is now you need to maintain. A few fucks like that, and you’ll be a backroom favorite. You’ll be fighting off the bottoms with a stick . . . or, more appropriately, beating _off_ the bottoms with your stick.”

I’m grinning like an idiot. He rolls his eyes and wipes it off my face with a demanding kiss. When he sits up again, he reaches between his thighs, pulls off my condom and empties the contents on my belly. Covering my dick with my come, he slides down and sucks me back to stiffness. When I’m fully hard again, he stops and looks up at me with a serious expression. I frown when his gaze remains focused on my face long after the point of awkwardness. He’s thinking. But then he shakes his head and laughs.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he replies and resumes sucking my dick. I reach down and lift his chin.

“Bullshit,” I say. “What were you just thinking?”

He smiles somewhat sheepishly and shrugs. “Only that I haven’t bottomed in a really long time.”

My heart rate spikes. Is he thinking what I think he’s thinking? Is he thinking about letting me fuck him? But then he rolls his eyes.

“Dream on,” he says, reading my mind. He must’ve seen my face fall because he gives the tip of my cock a playful kiss. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to watch. In fact, I think we could make one kickass team.”

“More like a fuck-ass team,” I say, smiling. Knowing he wants to watch me fuck someone else is one step closer to letting me fuck _him_.

At least I’m going to keep telling myself that.

**Author's Note:**

> You surely noticed that all poor Justin gets to fuck is a pillow that night. That's because in my head canon, the time he fucks Brian in season 2 is the first time. Not the last, of course, but the first. But too bad Brian didn't get to be Justin's first. The stolen trick Sean had that honor. *smacks Brian*


End file.
